The old television in the corner of the living room wasn’t even plugged in, but at 3:03 AM, it hummed to life anyway.

Clara sat on the edge of the mattress, the floorboards cold beneath her bare feet. The screen didn’t show a movie, or even the standard grey snow of a dead channel. Instead, it cast a pale, bruising purple light across the peeling wallpaper.

Through the heavy static, a sound began to bleed into the room. It was the distinct, rhythmic sloshing of water, followed by the faint, muffled ring of a bicycle bell.

Hello to my dear readers:)

I apologise for the overwhelming influx of micro fictions you’ve been getting recently. As of right now, I am overseas, so posts will be delayed and shorter because of my incredibly poor internet connection:((( It will return to normal from February, though!

She found the spare key on her kitchen counter one morning, glinting in the sunlight.
She lived alone. She was sure of it.

At first, she assumed she’d forgotten—misplaced it, set it down without thinking. But each day, the key appeared somewhere new. On the windowsill. By the sink. Once, tucked neatly beneath her pillow.

She started locking her bedroom door at night.

On the fourth night, she woke to the sound of metal scraping softly against the lock. Careful. Patient.

In the morning, the spare key was gone.

Her bedroom door stood open.

And the front door was locked from the inside.

Signing off..